Monday Morning Quarterback: A Bitchin’ Post

My gears are grinding

A new feature in which I bitch about EVERYTHING.

Thanksgiving is such a buzzkill for this half of SC – totally at odds with the snarky, d-bag vibe powering this unstoppable train of awesome. Plus, rooting for the ‘Canes and – to a much lesser extent given their lack of U alums, circus of a front office, and overall penchant for embarrassing me – the Dallas Cowboys, one can count on being bated at least once into throwing a leftover turkey sandwich at the 40-inch plasma.

Yes, I have a 40-inch plasma. WHATTAYOU GOT?

Seriously, if Roy Williams is a Cowboy next year, I’m writing a letter of fanhood protest to Jerry Jones, or more probably, permanently adopting the Ravens.

Heart you, Ed.

Also, this Pepto Bismol is not working, which means I have to put up with those DISGUSTING commercials and get NOTHING in return. Really guys, what’s gonna happen if I take this fifth dose in 24-hours? Because UP UNTIL F*CKING NOW, I’ve been swiggin this sh*t like Jack Daniels at a Bryan Holt tailgate.

(*doubles over/crouches in fetal position/quivers in corner*)

Let’s bitch, shall we?

The Problem: Combined Statistics

Are you telling me, ESPN ticker author, you have time to explain ‘Anthony played 3 minutes due to flu-like symptoms in his first game since hitting a buzzer-beating jumper against Chicago on Nov. 27,’ but can’t give me separate stats for Ronnie Brown and Ricky Williams? What does 180 COMBINED yards mean? Because right now I’m assuming a buck 70 for Ricky and 10 for Ronnie. You’re a lazy ass. And you’re killing my Fantasy League high. Here’s the number for Checkers:

(352) 373-2069

Find a job you’re good at.

The Problem: “Clean” Rap Albums

Censored ****

So I bought the new Yeezy record on Monday, and needless to say, it’s one of the dirtiest, sickest, most nauseatingly vulgar things I’ve ever heard in my life (and the best album of the year). Here’s what I don’t get: How the hell can you make sense of this thing when you have to translate entire choruses of “This sh*t is f*cking RIDICULOUS”? HUH? I mean, seriously Disintegrating Major Record Labels, tell me how you adequately replace that line. “This bad stuff makes me UNHAPPY?”

THAT DOESN’T F*CKING RHYME!

Clean Rap Albums, you my friend are responsible for a whole generation of young people with no flow.

The Problem: Lazy Ass Starbucks Employees

This one REALLY grinds my gears, and for my money – my $2.11 – is even more unacceptable than employing Lazy Ass Ticker Authors. I’m a purist. Don’t want any of your Frappacino BS. Don’t want a double soy mocha latte with two Splendas. Just want a freakin cup of regular coffee. AND I WANT YOU TO SERVE IT TO ME IN THE SAME SPOT YOU SERVE ALL THE OTHER DRINKS! Ever noticed that when you get a reg-brew, they hand it to you RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE CASH REGISTER? Great. Now I have to either A) hold up everyone standing behind me or B) cut back through the 20-person deep line when you, Lazy Ass Starbucks Employee, could have walked 10-feet to the left and served my coffee at the counter you SERVE EVERY OTHER PRODUCT. I think next time I might just “accidentally” spill my coffee all over your effin’ cash register. Dumbass.

The Problem: Text Messaging

Some pissed off bro

A beef that could be briefly remedied if I felt like buying an Apple product that’d probably just break in three months anyway. Here’s the deal, I have a crappy phone. But I have this crappy phone for a reason – it fits in my tight pants, stays in said pants when I dance, and DOESN’T HAVE A KEYPAD. HINT FREAKING HINT. Unless you’re one of four specific people, I DON’T WANT TO TEXT YOU. Do you realize how long it takes me to type a coherent sentence on a 10-digit config? Let me give you another hint: a lot f*ckin’ longer if I have to keep starting over to account for the NEXT text message you sent me TWO FREAKING SECONDS AGO. COME ON, MAN! Do you freakin realize how fat my fingertips are? Do you realize that the odds of me hitting the right key is roughly equal to the odds of John Goodman fitting into a Space Mountain car?

Here’s the deal: don’t send me any texts that require a response other than “sure” after 9 p.m. I’m tired. “Iron Chef” is on. I just want to chill. Not have a f*cking G4 heart-to-heart.

The Problem: Jon Gruden

Riiiiiiight.

Don’t ever tease me like that again, as*hole.

The Solutions: NONE

Beautiful day outside! Have an inspired Monday!

- Ball ‘o Joy